The Missing Girls

by Carol Wyer

  Harry gave a cough to clear his throat. ‘In this case, death occurred approximately five or six months ago. I’d say sometime between mid-July and mid-August last year.’

  Robyn cocked her head to one side. ‘Any idea of how she died?’

  ‘It’s difficult to be accurate, given the level of decomposition.’ He peeled back a piece of diaphanous skin. ‘There appear to be superficial wounds to the forehead and other marks on her body, but they could have occurred after death. A sharp implement might have caused the wounds or she might have cut her head through falling against a sharp surface. This is what actually killed her.’ He pointed to the wound in the lower part of the front of her neck. ‘The trachea, both the carotids and the oesophagus have been severed,’ he said. ‘I believe the cause of death is a cut-throat injury by a sharp-edged weapon.’

  Robyn crossed her arms and studied the body one more time. Could she have worked in a restaurant and been attacked there, then hidden in a large freezer? Or had she been murdered and secreted in a home chest freezer, big enough for a body this size? They were both possibilities.

  Anna spoke slowly, as if still processing all the information. ‘So, our victim is a sixteen-year-old girl, who had her throat cut five or six months ago, was wrapped in a plastic bag, frozen for some time, then removed from cold storage and placed in a sealed trunk in a privately rented storage unit.’

  Harry pulled his spectacles down from his forehead and covered the body with a sheet. ‘That’s pretty much it. I’ll have a full report sent to you as soon as possible. I’ve requested dental records for identification, so you should get a name soon. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must get on.’

  Outside, weak rays of sun pierced through the grey sky.

  Anna, in a pensive mood, glanced up and blinked as they left the hospital. ‘My gran used to say sunbeams were ladders from heaven. I never understood if the ladders were for people to climb into heaven or for those in heaven to be thrown out and land here.’

  Robyn breathed in deeply. The smell of death had permeated her nostrils and left its taste in her mouth. She understood that it was never easy dealing with death and Anna had done well.

  ‘Want a lift home?’

  Anna looked at her watch. ‘Thanks. That’d be good. I haven’t seen Razzle since yesterday. I’ll pick him up from my mum’s and take him for a walk. It’ll help take my mind off that poor girl.’

  ‘Good idea. Then get a good night’s sleep and come back in tomorrow, ready to catch whoever did this to her. Direct your energies into helping me track down her killer.’

  Anna stared out at the road. ‘I shall. I just don’t know how you can do all of this, day after day.’

  ‘Motivation. Once you feel like that, you always keep going. From what I’ve seen of your work so far, you’ll do well. You need to harden up a little, develop a thicker skin.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted me to come to the morgue – to see the body?’

  ‘I hoped you’d experience what I experience when I become involved in cases like this.’

  Anna thought for a moment, then spoke earnestly, her face filled with concern. ‘I want to do right by her. I want to seek justice for her and for her family. Standing there, looking at her broken body, discarded like it was rubbish, I got to know her better. She was just a kid, probably at school or just out of school, with a life in front of her, a life that was taken by someone. Now, I want to track them down and bang them to rights.’

  ‘Then you’re motivated.’ Robyn winked at her colleague.

  Six

  The traffic was beginning to build, heavy for a Monday afternoon, as they left the hospital and joined the A50 out of Stoke-on-Trent and headed towards Cheadle where Anna lived.

  Anna fell silent on the journey home, pulling absent-mindedly at a wisp of dark hair that had escaped the twisted ponytail style she wore. Stern-faced as ever, with clear almond eyes and dark eyebrows, she exuded an air of sadness. No doubt she was digesting what she had seen and heard. Robyn admired her pluck and the fact she hadn’t flinched at the sight of the body but instead asked pertinent questions. She left Anna to her thoughts, grateful she was part of her dedicated team.

  Anna’s home was a semi-detached brick house with a decent frontage laid to lawn. It was at the end of a road of properties that looked identical.

  ‘Thanks, guv. See you tomorrow. Best go collect Razzle. That is if he hasn’t been so spoilt by my mum that he refuses to come home.’ She strolled up her path, pausing only to turn and lift a hand in thanks.

  It was getting close to 5 p.m. so Robyn decided to drive into Uttoxeter and head back to Stafford on the A518, a more scenic route, although there was little to see now other than the soft glow from houses dotted along the roadside. It was more appealing than jostling with lorries on the dual carriageway again. She wasn’t in the mood for the radio so selected a CD of piano concertos and let her mind wander as Beethoven’s fifth floated through the speakers.

  It was Davies who had got her into classical music. She had an eclectic taste in music, her collection filled mostly with various artists from the eighties and an array of more modern artists including, ironically, The Killers, something that had always amused him. Davies, whose radio was always tuned to classical stations, had encouraged her to listen to his favourites. He maintained classical music was better for the brain – a claim she could never be sure was fact or fiction. Robyn was no longer sure if she listened to the music these days because she really liked it, and believed it enhanced her thought processes, or because it reminded her of Davies…

  * * *

  Davies, head back in his chair, eyes closed, a pen in his hand and the crossword open on his knee. Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 is playing and his head nods gently in time to the music. It is one of his favourite pieces. She lifts the paper and his eyes open sleepily.

  ‘Hello. Didn’t hear you come in,’ he says.

  She slips onto his knee and wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him.

  They sit for a while, entwined as the music serenades them. Her heart feels light. Life couldn’t be better.

  * * *

  Streetlights flooded the pavements, and huddled figures scurried against the cold to get home to their warm houses. She was thinking about the girl in the trunk when she spotted a figure she recognised. It was Florence Hallows, in school uniform with a large backpack on her shoulders and carrying a couple of plastic bags. Robyn slowed the car to a halt, wound down her window and called out. The girl’s head pulled up with a jerk and she wandered across to the Golf.

  ‘Hey,’ said Robyn. ‘Bought anything nice?’ she asked, pointing at the bags. Florence blushed.

  ‘Just underwear,’ she replied. ‘Needed a new bra.’

  Robyn nodded. She didn’t want to embarrass the girl. Growing up could be difficult. ‘Your mum with you?’

  Florence shook her head. ‘Working.’

  ‘How are you getting home?’

  ‘Bus. I usually catch the bus,’ Florence replied.

  The idea worried Robyn. Rosy-cheeked Florence was so young and vulnerable, and about to walk alone to the bus stop. The image of the girl in the trunk flickered in her mind. ‘Hop in. I’ll drive you home,’ she said. There was no way she wanted Florence to go home alone in the dark even if it was only 5 p.m.

  Florence hesitated for a second, then threw her backpack onto the back seat and climbed into the front where she clutched the plastic bags.

  ‘Thanks. You didn’t have to,’ she said. ‘I could’ve caught the bus. That’s what I usually do.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. I’m looking for a good excuse to stay away from the station,’ said Robyn with a grin. She liked Florence, who usually had a cheerful face and bubbly personality to match. This Monday afternoon she was more subdued.

  ‘How’s school?’ Robyn asked.

  Florence shrugged, a typical teenage gesture. Robyn mentally chastised herself for asking such a dull question. She changed the sub
ject. ‘Amélie said you fancied watching A Street Cat Named Bob this Thursday.’

  ‘Yeah, it sounds good. Everyone’s talking about it on Facebook. Besides, it has to be good – it’s got a cat in it that’s ginger – a ginger cat that saves a drug addict.’ She shook her own strawberry-blonde hair. ‘Ginger saves the day.’

  Robyn smiled. Florence often joked about being ginger, although this time her smile was tighter than usual. In the past she had been teased about her hair colour. Robyn wondered if that were still the case.

  ‘It’s based on a true story, you know?’ Florence looked down at her iPhone that had flashed up a message. She read it and put the phone down in her lap. She carried on talking. ‘There’s a book too but I’d prefer to watch the film version.’ She wrinkled her nose at the thought of reading.

  ‘Bob,’ said Robyn. ‘That’s a great name for a cat.’

  Florence agreed. ‘It’s sort of funny, isn’t it? If I had a ginger cat, I’d call it something like Amber or Apricot.’

  ‘Or Apricat,’ said Robyn, waiting for a smile. Florence managed one. She fell silent and fiddled with her mobile, pressing keys with a dexterity Robyn could only dream of. Robyn turned on the radio, tuning it to Radio 1. Florence gave her a smile.

  ‘I like this song,’ she said. ‘It’s Ed Sheeran. His latest album’s really good. He’s pretty cool too. Did you know, he used to wear glasses, have a stutter and was teased about his ginger hair? Now he’s a famous pop star and loads of girls fancy him.’ She looked out of the window into the darkness. Robyn guessed she was busy drawing parallels, and wondered again if the teasing had stopped. Maybe Amélie could throw some light on the matter.

  She sang along, and for a while she was the cheerful Florence that Robyn knew, but as soon as the song drew to an end she returned her attention to her phone and began thumbing another message.

  Robyn turned into the dark lane towards The Stables, on the outskirts of Doveridge, only three miles from Uttoxeter, but in the opposite direction she wanted to travel. The large farmhouse was in darkness, but the stables and riding arena beyond were lit up with huge floodlights. Several riders were trotting, backs ramrod straight, bouncing up and down. The horses obediently responded to their instructions, clouds of warm air puffing from their nostrils. Robyn recognised Christine Hallows leaning on the fence, dressed in jeans and Barbour jacket, watching the riders and calling instructions out to them. She had no idea her daughter had just come home.

  ‘Thanks, Robyn,’ said Florence. She twisted around to grab her backpack and hauled it over the seat onto her lap.

  ‘Not a problem. Looks heavy. You got a lot of homework?’

  Florence nodded. ‘Science and English. Not my favourite subjects.’

  ‘Get some food and then tackle them,’ said Robyn.

  ‘I had a sandwich in town. I’ll get on with it straight away. Thanks again. See you on Thursday.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing Bob,’ replied Robyn with a smile.

  Florence got out of the car and headed for the front door, let herself in, and disappeared from view. Robyn reversed the Golf, turned it around and drove away. She checked her rear-view mirror and noticed a light come on upstairs and wondered if it was healthy to let Florence have such a free rein. Christine and Grant adored their daughter, but a small voice in Robyn’s head disapproved of the fact they weren’t around for the girl. It didn’t seem right that Florence was so independent. She was only thirteen. She shook her head. She was becoming a fuddy-duddy in her old age. It wasn’t for her to judge Florence’s parents. They had to earn a living and they were at least on site with their work.

  Robyn left the lane and with it all thoughts of Florence. The car gave a growl as she accelerated down the main road towards Stafford. She’d spent more time than she intended away from the office and needed to get back. The girl in the trunk had to be identified and a killer had to be brought to justice.

  Seven

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 17 JANUARY

  The next morning saw the office full of uniforms, and the air thick with sweat and testosterone. Thirty-year-old PC David Marker, wide-shouldered like a rugby-player, rubbed at the dark stubble on his chin and punched at the coffee machine buttons, grumbling loudly as thick black coffee spluttered into his paper cup. Mitz Patel was on the telephone, face screwed up in concentration, scribbling in a notepad. Sergeant Matt Higham, dark circles under his eyes, struggled to remove his stab vest in the small space and then threw it with an exasperated sigh onto his chair.

  ‘Bloody lying little toerag,’ said Matt for the third time. ‘I hope Shearer rips his balls off when he locates him.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, calm down, Matt.’ Robyn pushed her way to her desk. ‘Shouldn’t you all be in Shearer’s office? He’s running the Towers drugs case, not me.’

  David spoke up. ‘Thought we’d be better off here. He’s not best pleased with the operation. That little shit we picked up gave us false information. That’s the second load of crap info we’ve had on this case, and another ridiculously early start to the day. I’m rapidly becoming sleep-deprived. Someone is giving us a right runaround.’ He thumped the coffee machine.

  Robyn raised her voice. ‘Pack it in. You’ll break it. I know you’re unhappy, but taking it out on my machine isn’t the answer.’

  ‘Boss, this is for you.’ Mitz passed a piece of paper over.

  Robyn’s lips set in a thin line as she read it. ‘Okay, you lot. I’ve got work to do here, so unless you can settle down, go outside and let off some steam. Anna, check this name out for me. The usual social media sites, all that sort of thing. I want to know everything you can find out about her.’

  Mitz sat down. ‘Need a hand? I don’t think we’ll be needed for a while.’ As he spoke, Shearer bellowed down the corridor.

  ‘Matt, get your arse in here and bring David with you.’

  Matt grabbed his jacket.

  ‘Action stations again. Come on, David. Let’s see what his lordship wants now.’ The pair clattered down the corridor. Mitz shrugged.

  ‘Looks like I’ve been let off.’

  ‘In that case, can you check this name out for me, instead of Anna, and give me all the details you can about the self-storage warehouse – how it operates, how many units there are, owner, users. Everything you think is relevant. I want to talk to the owner. Anna, you’d better come with me. We have to visit her family and break the news.’

  * * *

  Robyn drove in silence wondering what she was going to say to the deceased girl’s family. The bored voice of the satnav said: ‘Turn left in one hundred yards.’ She seemed to have been driving down similar roads for ages, with endless terraced houses painted in a miserable grey next to equally drab brown houses that added to the impression of misery, poverty and depression. As she passed a community centre, Robyn recognised the name of the street. She was almost at her destination. In front of them, an old man trundled along the road on a mobility scooter, blanket across his knees, woollen hat pulled low over his head. She didn’t blast her horn at him. The pavement was broken, uneven and so full of holes he would tumble down one if he used it.

  She passed a fish and chip shop and searched for a parking space. Number 143 was sandwiched between a house with large grey false stone walls that might have been popular in the seventies but looked hideous in 2017, and a red brick house with a plastic white door and window frames. The doorbell was answered by a diminutive woman whose head seemed disproportionately large, an impression created by the sizeable Velcro rollers in her hair. She narrowed her eyes with their lengthy, dark eyelashes coated in black mascara, and pursed her crimson-red lips. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re looking for Mr Vincent Miller. Is he at home?’

  The woman nodded; her hair rollers bounced on her head.

  ‘I’m DI Robyn Carter. This is PC Anna Shamash. Could I come in for a moment?’ Robyn and Anna held out warrant cards for the woman, who appeared to deflate. ‘It’s about Carrie
, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Please can we come in and talk?’

  ‘What’s the stupid cow done now? He’ll go off on one if she’s been banged up.’ She held open the door and beckoned Robyn in.

  ‘She’s always been a bloody problem. It’s been so much better since she cleared off. No more arguments, no more tantrums. It’s drugs, isn’t it? She hung about with the wrong crowd. They get up to all sorts here: glue, E, alcohol. It was a full-time job keeping her in control. He did his best but she’s headstrong. Bit like her old man. I warned Vince that she’d screw up.’ The woman kept talking, her hands now patting her pockets. She pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out and held it to her lips. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? She okay?’

  ‘Are you Mrs Miller?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I’m his partner. Leah.’

  ‘Leah, could you fetch Mr Miller please?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Sure. He was up late last night. He’s still in bed. Hang on. I’ll get him.’

  She disappeared, leaving the officers in the modern kitchen. The sink was full of crockery yet to be washed. A plastic red bowl bearing the name ‘Tiger’ was beside the sink, a small, grey piece of meat and unidentifiable scraps in it. A strong smell of garlic permeated the kitchen, making Robyn feel queasy.

  ‘You okay?’ she whispered to Anna, whose face had lost some of its colour.

  ‘Fine. Not sure where to put myself. I feel awkward,’ said Anna.

  ‘Think about something else – Razzle, anything. Best not to focus on the moment.’